Part 22 (1/2)

But this was one of those dreadful times in a PI's life when time didn't permit him to spread the burden. He had to act as if he was absolutely certain, which to a man whose genuine absolute certainties often turned out to be completely wrong was not a pleasant prospect.

As the Mazda drove away, he took out his mobile.

His first call was to Directory Enquiries. He asked for the number of the Royal Hoo and a few moments later he heard Bert Symonds' voice say, 'Royal Hoo Golf Club' in a tone that would have got him a butler's job anywhere.

'Bert,' he said. 'This is Joe Sixsmith. Listen, are the Bermuda Triangle there?'

The steward didn't pretend not to know who he meant.

'Yes, out on the terrace with everybody else. It's another scorcher.'

'Not where I am,' said Joe, glancing round at the dank shades of the Bottom. 'Bert, I need a favour. Any phone calls come through for the Triangle, like someone asking one of them to ring back urgently, don't pa.s.s it on.'

There was a long silence.

'Just had a call for Mr Latimer,' said Bert finally. 'Was on my way to give the message when you rang.'

'Don't. Specially if the message is to give Mr King a bell.'

Another silence.

'How'd you know that?'

'Never mind. Will you help me?'

'It's my job if Mr Latimer finds out,' said the steward.

'Who'd you rather rely on for your job, Tom Latimer or Chris Porphyry? Is he there, by the way?'

'Oh yes. Toughing it out. You know the Rules Committee are meeting tonight?'

'Yeah, no problem. That's all fixed.'

'You mean ...'

'Never mind that. I'll explain everything later. Will you help?'

'OK, but I ...'

'Good. Is Mr Postgate on the terrace?'

'No. Too hot for him. I imagine he's at home in the shade.'

'You got his number handy?' 'Sure.'

After Joe had noted it down he said, 'One last thing. Can you tell Mr Porphyry discreetly that I'll be on my way shortly? See him in the car park in say half an hour.

OK?'

'OK. But if this goes wrong, Joe, you'd better be able to afford a well-paid a.s.sistant, because I'll be on your payroll, believe me!'

Joe switched off. That had been close. If the Triangle hadn't been on the terrace, held incommunicado by the Hoo rules on mobiles, or if Bert had already delivered King Rat's message, then his plan would be worthless. On the other hand, he'd have had plenty of time to try to put some flesh on the very skimpy bones of his theory before he made a call to the one man in Luton he really didn't want to p.i.s.s off.

But needs must when the devil drives, and rehearsing in his mind the tones of absolute certainty, he turned to his phone again.

He didn't need to ask Enquiries for the number this time.

When the phone was answered he said, 'Hi. My name's Joe Sixsmith. I'd like to speak to Detective Superintendent Woodbine, please.'

Last Breakfast.

Joe stood outside No 15 Lock-keeper's Lane and rang the doorbell with some trepidation.

To his relief it was the boy Liam who opened the door.

Joe glanced at his watch. It was half past three.

Joe said, 'Hi, Liam. Back from school already?'

'Exams,' said the boy lugubriously. 'You want to see Mum?'

Not if I don't have to, thought Joe.

He said, 'Just wondered, that morning Steve left, did he actually eat his breakfast.'

'Yeah, Steve always ate his breakfast,' said Liam wonderingly. 'He really liked Mum's cooking!'

Recalling the burnt offering he'd seen on his previous visit, Joe understood Liam's wonderment, but he wasn't sure the boy had fully understood the question.

'Don't mean generally,' he said. 'I mean, that specific Wednesday morning, did he definitely have breakfast before he went?'

Now the boy understood him.

He turned away and yelled, 'Mum! It's for you!'

Then he vanished up the stairs.

Oh shoot! thought Joe, his heart sinking not only at the prospect of renewing acquaintance with Mrs Tremayne but because he already had his answer.

She emerged from the kitchen in a puff of vegetable steam. Presumably she was preparing her returning lodgers' evening meal. It did not surprise Joe that she belonged to that old-fas.h.i.+oned school of landladies who thought that vegetables could never be boiled too much.

Her face was already flushed from the heat of the kitchen, but irritation at the sight of Joe slapped on another coat of puce.

'What?' she demanded.